


Special People

by needchocolatenow



Category: Dissidia: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy IX
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-17
Updated: 2010-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-17 23:01:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/needchocolatenow/pseuds/needchocolatenow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kuja knows he’s special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Special People

**Author's Note:**

> This is written for Kaichi’s birthday. She requested a Sephiroth/Kuja/Jecht fic and…voila! Happy belated birthday, Kaichi~~~♥

Kuja knows he’s special. He was born a Genome, a clone without a soul or awareness. But he has awareness and a soul; somewhere along the way, Kuja discovered it and he knows that this sets him apart from his look-alikes.

Kuja is special. Even if he wasn’t born special, he made himself so.

He loves the grand opulence of palaces and the ostentatious words and displays of plays. Most of all though, he loves the glory of war.

But there are other things that Kuja likes. He likes people that are special; not just kings or queens, but people that just commanded attention. People like Zidane. Because all the plebeians need someone to look up to and when these looked-up-to unique little snowflakes are looking at him...Kuja feels like a god.

Kuja thinks that he should be worshipped as a god.

-

He takes a man to bed.

This man is unlike any other that Kuja has ever met.

He is tall, built, and scarred. He is scarred in a way that Kuja can’t fathom and Kuja has no desire to fix these emotional scabs. All he wants is this dark haired man’s—Jecht’s— attention; the fact that he can push aside all the pain and worries that plague this man’s mind with a glance makes Kuja quiver in pleasure. He loves how Jecht’s attention is all focused on him and only him.

Despite the gruff exterior, Jecht is gentle with his calloused hands. He caresses Kuja like he’s made of glass, holds him like he’s something precious.

It’s almost cute, if it weren’t so sweet. Kuja has no love of sweet things.

After the discoveries of the hidden places of each other’s bodies, they lay facing each other on the ruined silk sheets of Alexandria’s finest hotel.

Jecht’s large hand is on the curve of Kuja’s hip, stroking over the baby-soft skin. Kuja doesn’t mind that; his body should be marveled at and revered, but it’s the lost look in Jecht’s eyes that Kuja hates. It means that what Jecht is looking at is no longer what’s in front of him—Kuja—but something far away in a distant memory.

“What are you thinking of?” Kuja asks, snapping Jecht’s attention back to him.

Jecht smirks. “Home,” he says and Kuja frowns.

“Think of me,” Kuja commands in a silken whisper. “Think only of me.”

For a while, not much talking or thinking is done at all.

-

Men like Jecht are special and rare; handsome, strong, dependable. These are all qualities that Kuja likes, but only in people that serves him loyally. He’s never quite had a lackey that had all those qualities.

Jecht stays a while in Alexandria, seemingly lost and confused and every time Kuja catches the man coming back from town, Jecht has a frown on his face, as if he can’t exactly believe what he’s seeing. Kuja can sympathize with the sentiment; the people of Alexandria are quite backwards, like a certain someone that he knows.

“What’re you thinking about?” Jecht asks one evening. “You’re looking out of it.”

Kuja tilts his lips into an almost smile. “Not thinking about you,” he says.

Jecht smirks.

Later that night, Jecht rolls over in bed and asks; “Who’s Zidane?”

-

There’s a rumor of a ghost running wild within the walls of Alexandria’s castle. The Knights of Pluto are on duty around the clock; Steiner’s taken to harassing anyone that even remotely resembles the description of said ghost, and that is simply the word ‘white.’

Kuja’s been stopped so many times by the armored men who’s breastplates are so rusted, that he’s shocked that they can even be called knights of any sort. He can hear their clanking footsteps echo from anywhere in the castle and he hates it. But most of all, he hates the captain of the Knights of Pluto the most.

Steiner is brash, unskilled and yet sees himself as Beatrice’s equal, and his face is a sin to humanity. Kuja has no choice but to deal with the man, however, since he is the one in charge of security around the castle.

“I am not your ghost,” Kuja hisses to Steiner for the umpteenth time as he leaves after a visit to Queen Brahne. “Do you not have eyes? Is your helm too heavy for your head?”

“J-Just checking, sir!” Steiner salutes. Despite the waver in his voice, he remains steadfast in his posture. “It is my sworn duty to serve Her Royal Majesty Queen Brahne Raza Alexandros XVI—”

“Away with you,” Kuja waves his hand in irritation and sends Steiner flying away with a well timed Aero.

The clanking of rusted armor can be heard miles away and Kuja grimaces at the thought of his own soldiers wearing armor; fighting is such a barbaric thing. Magic is simply much more elegant. There’s no ugly grappling involved, neither is there a need for excess muscle; magic depends solely on the spirit and mind of the user and showcases the soul. And his magic is the best in all lands; his soul is the most magnificent.

There is a shadow cast over him and Kuja looks up. His breath is taken away.

There is a man, tall, calm, with one wing flapping in the sky. His hair is stark white, brilliant and cold and his eyes a frosty green.

It’s only a moment that Kuja sees this man and then he disappears.

-

Kuja is intrigued by the ghost of Alexandria’s castle. The man he sees is decidedly not a ghost, but something corporeal and solid; it has a shadow, after all. Those green eyes stay in Kuja’s mind, haunting him, and Kuja doesn’t like it.

Jecht is distant again and Kuja’s hardly in the mood to indulge the man. He is not a saint and he certainly doesn’t pretend to be one. Their dalliance has since become repetitive and Kuja’s not one for repetitious things.

“I’m leaving,” Kuja announces, putting on his boots as he’s about to step out.

“Where are you going?” Jecht asks, a slight frown on his face.

“Ghost hunting,” Kuja replies and he shuts the door in Jecht’s face.

-

The castle is dark and silent.

Kuja’s sitting at the highest point of the castle, staring down at the grounds, but he doesn’t see the white haired man. All he sees are the stupid Knights of Pluto stumbling about drunk and not doing their duty.

So Kuja sits and waits and watches. The moon rises high and begins to dip low again and still, the ghost-man of Alexandria’s castle remains elusive, but if there’s one thing that Kuja trusts, it’s himself. He knows with a certainty that the ghost will come again; it curls at the bottom of his stomach like a coiled snake and weighs as heavy as a ton. Hiding beneath it all is a sense of trepidation.

“Looking for me?”

Kuja starts and he comes face to face with the man he saw in the afternoon. His large, black wing is stretched out behind him, unmoving in the still breeze, yet the man remained afloat.

Up close, Kuja can see that this man is statuesque in his features. His fair skin and fairer hair is a stark contrast to the night sky and Kuja shivers in excitement because he knows, as a predator, that the man in front of him is dangerous.

Kuja rises from his seated position and lets his power surround him; he floats as well, away from the tower and towards this mysterious man.

“Death sets a thing significant, the eye had hurried by,” Kuja recites from memory of a poem by a tragic, dead woman.

“I am not a ghost,” the man says, voice deep and soulless and Kuja laughs.

“Good.” Kuja flicks his wrist and the Flare spell sets off on his target, awakening probably everyone in the castle below with its noise and light.

Kuja knows that the man has somehow escaped, somehow got away from his deadly spell casting and he hops away, getting distance.

He hears it before he actually sees it, but Kuja drops and dives towards the ground just as a long, long blade cuts into the air that he had just occupied. The ghost-man is fast; faster than Kuja is, at any rate, but definitely slower than Zidane.

There’s only a flurry of feathers and Kuja is face to face with the man again and he feels the tang of metal against his throat.

“You’re dead,” the man says and Kuja just smiles, holding out his empty palm.

“We’re both dead,” he corrects as the Holy spell centers in on them.

In a fraction of a second, Kuja registers another presence jumping into the fray, knocking away the long sword and Kuja’s palm in one move, disrupting the spell.

“Hey, you miss me?” the gruff, playful voice of Jecht echoes through the empty night air. In his hand is a massive sword, unlike anything that Kuja has ever seen. It’s dark and its end is wicked in a way that’s meant for decapitating and doing maximum damage. There is blood thirst in the air and Kuja can nearly taste it on his tongue.

Kuja’s about to answer when the ghost-man laughs.

“So this is where you’ve ran off to, Jecht,” he says.

Jecht shrugs and the sword he wields disappears in faded balls of pale light. “Nice to see you too, Sephiroth.”

The long sword Sephiroth holds disappears in a sick, green light. “I can see what took you so long.” There’s only a simple smile on Sephiroth’s face and Kuja feels a shiver run down his back.

-

Kuja is never one for sexual encounters in a public place, but Sephiroth doesn’t seem to care as he puts himself into Kuja’s mouth. It’s bitter and hot and Kuja really doesn’t like the look on Sephiroth’s face, the impassive, arrogance that’s written there.

Kuja is on his knees, servicing the white haired man as Jecht slides into him from behind.

New experience aside, Kuja finds himself humiliated and seething; he is not a plaything, but he finds himself being treated like one in the presence of the two larger men.

“I don’t normally do this,” Jecht says in between grunts. “You know, ‘cuz dudes are not my thing.”

Sephiroth says nothing, but that condescending look writes his response all over his face. As long as he is dominating someone, not just any someone, but special people, it is as Jecht puts it so crudely, ‘his thing.’ Kuja’s so tempted to bite, but one wrong move and he’s certain Sephiroth would summon his sword between Kuja’s head and body.

“You’re no good at this,” Sephiroth says and Kuja finds himself being stretched beyond his limits as Sephiroth pushes in a finger in addition to Jecht’s length inside him.

It’s painful, but Sephiroth persists and Kuja does his best to not cry out.

It is Jecht that speaks, his voice guttural and dangerous and Kuja is reminded of how gentle Jecht is with him in bed. “Hey, man, I’m fine with double penetration and all, but this is going gay.”

Sephiroth just smirks and Kuja sees his free hand grabbing at a sword in thin air—

-

Kuja knows that he’s nothing but a doll, a puppet, in Garland’s eyes. His freewill isn’t born to him, but learned.

Sephiroth is another puppet master. Kuja knows that much; the man likes submission and the dark lust in his eyes are horrific as he pushes both Jecht and Kuja under his will. There’s just something about him, the man with the one-wing, that Kuja inherently dislikes. Mostly because Kuja can’t bend this man to his will like he can with Jecht, but it’s something more than that. Perhaps it’s the similarities he sees with Sephiroth and Garland.

Kuja hates puppet masters.

But Sephiroth is more than that and that draws Kuja to him, allows himself to be taken by this mysterious man.

Kuja clings to Jecht’s firm body as Sephiroth ruthlessly plunges into him. Jecht’s hands are gentle on Kuja’s skin like butterfly kisses and spring rain; the way he holds Kuja is with reverence and respect. Sephiroth’s large hand is bruising and tight, squeezing his thigh and buttock until he’s certain bruises were going to show in the morning after. Kuja’s never had a lover so rough before; he doesn’t mind damage to his body, but not like this.

His tail is exposed, curling around Jecht’s thigh, quivering and exposing every emotion going through Kuja’s body.

Pain, lust, humiliation, pleasure, angerdespairadmiration—

Zidane.

Kuja almost screams.

-

Kuja opens his eyes and all he sees around him is a twisted green light; its glow is bright and within it, he senses a dull throb of power. The green is the same as Sephiroth’s eyes.

“This is the Planet’s Core,” Sephiroth says. He is standing on a floating precipice, looking down into the never ending abyss of green.

“Nuthin’ special,” Jecht snorts from where he’s sitting next to Kuja.

Kuja wrinkles his nose and floats away from the large man. He doesn’t approach Sephiroth either.

“This place is so…inelegant,” Kuja says disdainfully. “Planet’s Core indeed. Nothing but ugly rocks!”

Sephiroth says nothing, but levels a glare at Kuja. His hand is tight on the hilt of his sword, so long and sharp and so familiar in Kuja’s eyes, as if he’s seen it before. But that doesn’t make any sense because he’s never met the two men before in his life.

Yet he knows their names.

Kuja stops his listless floating and turns to Jecht. “Have we met before?”

“Hell if I know,” he says with a shrug, a lazy grin on his face. “I doubt it though, ‘cuz I’d never forget a pretty face like yours.”

“Empty words will not woo me,” Kuja purrs. “I prefer men of action.”

Sephiroth snorts and fans out his one, large wing and Kuja feels an instinctive urge to go on the defensive. “We are all gathered. Chaos calls.”

There is a pull, strong and magnetic, and Kuja opens his eyes to find himself before a throne with a group of warriors he’s never met and he knows with every fiber of his being that the one sitting before him is the greatest puppet master of them all. His name is Chaos and Kuja feels sick to his stomach just looking upon his beastly features.

“The Light of Cosmos and the Dark of Chaos,” Chaos rumbles. “Are assembled.”

The image of Zidane runs through his head, free and without worry; joyous and at peace.

An overwhelming hatred grips Kuja to the very soul because there’s something very, very wrong and he doesn’t know what it is. He wants to hurt something because something has wronged him. He is in turmoil and pain.

Kuja likes special people. But not even the vision of that special person can bring him peace; it makes the hole in his chest bigger and the pain in his head amplified.

He looks over at the person standing next to him and nearly startles at the deep frown on Jecht’s face.

“It’s war,” Jecht says quietly. His large blade stands tall beside him, rooted into the ground.

Zidane, Kuja thinks. Zidanezidanezidanezidanezidane—

He manages to keep his cool long enough to enter the battlefield.


End file.
